“That may help him,” he said.  “I do not like doing it, but I cannot see my old friend’s son perish without trying to save him.  I may fail, but I must try.  Perhaps my lie may be blotted out, like Uncle Toby’s oath.  If I can persuade him to send a denial, and date it Paris or Vienna, he will be saved.”

Mr. Forster lost no time in applying for an order to see the prisoner.  It was granted at once.

Basil Carruthers—­we may use his right name now—­looked up in surprise when Mr. Forster, with the paper in his hand, entered the cell.

“Back again?” he said.

“Yes; it is just as I expected; the papers have got hold of your name, and there is a grand expose.”

Basil held out his hand and read the paragraph.

“It is enough to make your father rise up from his grave,” said the lawyer; “I cannot understand what madness, what infatuation, has come over you, to drag such a proud name as yours through the dust.”

“So it is known,” said Basil, slowly.  “Well, I cannot help it.”

“I have done my best,” said Mr. Forster.  “I have never yet asked you if you stole the watch—­the idea is too absurd.”

“They are so far right that I was found in the room; nothing else matters.”

“I can only imagine that the same folly which has brought you here will keep you here,” said Mr. Forster.  “The only thing to be done is to send a denial to the papers.  If you will write one, I will go to Paris myself to post it.”

Basil Carruthers laughed contemptuously.

“I shield myself behind a lie!” he said.  “Never!”

“You are too late,” replied Mr. Forster; “I have already written, and sent, a very indignant denial, saying you have gone abroad.”

Basil’s face grew pale, as it had not done during that trial; then an angry fire flashed from his eyes.

“And you have dared to do this?” he cried.  “You have dared to publish a lie to screen a Carruthers?”

“I would have dared a great deal more to have saved you from public ignominy,” said Mr. Forster.

“Do not apply that word to me!” said Basil, angrily.

“If I do not, every one else will.  Your position is ignominious, Mr. Carruthers; the paltry crime you are charged with is the same; and the name that for centuries has been honored in England will be low in the dust, sir.  I would rather have been dead than have seen such a day.”

The handsome young face changed slightly; evidently these thoughts had not occurred to him; he seemed to seek solace from some inward source of comfort of which the lawyer knew nothing.

“I must bear it,” he said, unflinchingly.

“There is but one thing you can do,” said Mr. Forster; “only one means of escape—­write a letter at once containing a most indignant denial of the identity.  I will go myself purposely to Paris and post it there.”

“My dear Forster,” said the young man with a smile of languid contempt, “I would not ransom my life, even, with a lie!”